


A New Course

by Highly_Illogical



Series: USS Woolworth [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Star Trek
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Fake Science, Friendship, Multi, Science Fiction, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: On theUSS Woolworth, it's Credence's first time being chosen for an away team, and he doesn't know whether to jump at the chance or run as fast as he can. Little does he know he's getting a lot more than he bargained for from his little planetside romp.





	A New Course

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here!  
> Episode 1 of the continuing mission of the _USS Woolworth_ , for the enjoyment of all the Trekkies or Trekkers out there, whichever you prefer.  
> Kindly suspend your disbelief. Done? Good.  
> WARNING: there is a brief mention of past suicidal thoughts and I tagged for it out of caution, but it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of thing.

_Enter when ready._

The doors hiss open and Credence steps in. It’s hard to believe this isn’t the bridge at all, but a carefully constructed show of light made solid.

The Captain nods in acknowledgement as if his presence there were not an anomaly at all, and Cmdr. Graves… Credence is determinedly _not_ looking at Cmdr. Graves, because you don’t stare at a star too long, even children know that, and he’s sure he’s smiling brightly enough to be just as dangerous.

 _He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real_ , he reminds himself with every step. He can’t fool himself into thinking he would ever smile like that. He’s just like the others, a bunch of photons tailored to bend to his whim, a momentary illusion programmed to approve of him and his silly fantasies, a waking dream to appease his stupid need to be told he belongs.

The helmsman’s seat is conspicuously empty, and Credence feels taller even as he lowers himself into it. He wishes the viewscreen were a mirror, to see the proud red of command adorning his shoulders, the single pip glistening on his neck telling him he has a place in here, however small.

But that’s not what he sees in front of him—instead, a ghastly landscape of jagged rocks, ranging in size from that of boulders to that of small, free-floating mountains, is scattered in the void before them, possibly the result of some long-ago catastrophe that reshaped this region of space forever, and it falls to him to get everyone safely through it. He can program anything into the simulation, and today, an asteroid field it is.

His fingers fly on the console, quicker and more practiced than last time, and the ride remains beautifully smooth as the inertial dampers do their job and the engines purr on. He knows in his heart of hearts that piloting a real starship is not, cannot possibly be, this easy, but immersing himself into this fantasy makes him feel _powerful_ in a way he can’t quite put into words.

The simulation is as realistic as he can make it—he’s heard that it’s the same program cadets use for training, so the controls up there on the real bridge can’t be too different; it’s the feeling that comes with it that is surely miles away from the real thing. These are not living people he’s responsible for, they’re programs that will simply shut down if he gets it wrong and be resurrected from the computer’s memory next time, no harm done. He’s not certain he could stay so calm and collected and remember all the procedures if they were flesh and blood, but then, he’s never tried. He’s steered a real shuttle before, but he was alone in the cockpit then, and if an error in judgment on his part led him to his end, well, who would miss him?

It may not be perfect, but this watered down version, so far removed from the dangers of a real helmsman’s duty, puts his mind at ease. He gets to steer; he gets to decide where to go. That’s more than he could say of his life before the _Woolworth_.

Credence has not told a living soul he wants to try his hand at being a pilot; only Miss Queenie knows, but then, she knows everything about everyone, so that hardly counts.

And so he drives on, picking his way ever so carefully through the maze all around him, every obstacle left behind giving him a rush of disbelieving joy, _phew, that one was close,_ and finally, there is nothing before him but distant pinpricks of light, and he lets out a whoop of exhilaration that is definitely not befitting of a perfectly professional Starfleet officer.

“That, Mr. Barebone,” says not-Graves behind him, “was some damn good piloting.”

It rings hollow. This will never happen. As much as he loves the thrill of sitting at the console, piloting simulations are definitely beginning to lose their charm—even the ones in the shuttle, where the hologram with his face is his only companion and he has been tempted, oh so tempted, to put his hands on something other than the controls.

*

Credence is most definitely _not_ panicking.

He knows what panicking feels like, and this isn’t it. But whatever it is he’s feeling is surely just one measly step away from it.

His feet are carrying him to the shuttlebay as if on autopilot, which he supposes is good—a fine thing it would be if he got lost before his first real assignment even started.

But there are a million more ways he can mess this up, and he’s just waiting for one of them to happen. Endless scenarios are going through his head without really getting anywhere.

One is the good one, the ideal one, where he somehow manages to follow all the rules to a T and Mr. Scamander congratulates him on being helpful and they can go back home (he’s just thought of the ship as _home_ , when did that happen?) and reward themselves with a slice of Ktarian chocolate puff.

But the others are all increasingly disastrous outcomes where all their work is ruined or one of them is badly hurt, and it’s invariably _all his fault_ , and all he wants is to turn on his heels and never report to the shuttlebay at all, because it doesn’t take a genius to calculate that if there is only one way the assignment could go right and so many ways it could go wrong, then with his luck, it will go wrong.

But he’s going anyway, because Mr. Scamander could have had anyone, anyone at all, and he requested him. Out of all those people. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t bring himself to care. To be requested is to be _wanted_ , and he likes the way it feels, so he’s going. No turning back now.

A door swishes open somewhere on his right, and he has to blink once or twice at the flurry of pink that falls into step with him. Miss Queenie is very, very much out of uniform, probably headed to the holodeck, if her big smile and her feathered boa, of all things, are any indication.

Fleetingly, Credence thinks it’s curious how his brain works—how he can think of the other sister only as Lt. Goldstein despite her insistence that he should call her Tina, and how this vision of white teeth and red lips and pink fluff is just ‘Miss Queenie’, not because he doesn’t respect her, but because she simply refuses to be anything else in his mind. But he supposes there are some people who are born to be in the chain of command, and others, like her and meek, shy Mr. Scamander, who just don’t seem to fit into a place where everyone has a military rank and is always barking orders. That’s why he likes being around them: they can’t be angry at him for not fitting in if they don’t fit in themselves.

“You’re nervous,” she says, and she doesn’t make it sound like a question at all.

 _Don’t remind me_ , he tries to think in her general direction.

“Try to relax, honey, or you’ll—” _probably kill us all and lose the shuttle_ , his mind supplies, and Queenie freezes mid-step, her grin faltering. “Now, who put that load of nonsense in your head?”

He doesn’t want to answer that, because that would be pointing fingers and he doesn’t want any trouble, but he’s sure she’s already picked up on his memory of it. It’s the reason he stays well away from the engine room except maybe to deliver something every once in a while, and the reason he’s so scared of being in a shuttle with other people.

_Look, kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm, really, but you have to understand, if you have another one of your… incidents… anywhere near the warp core, we could be dead in space, or worse, just plain dead._

“So that’s why you never go down there! I’ll be having words with Abernathy. It hasn’t happened in ages, he has no right to keep you from learning if you want to. Now go show everyone what you can do. And say hi to Teenie for me, will you?”

And just like that, she’s off to whatever holographic adventure she’s all dressed up for. Credence watches her go and has to grapple with his feelings for a moment, because he’s not sure what that thing is that’s eating away at him as he looks at her sauntering figure disappearing around the corner.

It’s envy, he realizes. He’s so envious of Miss Queenie he could positively scream, because being happy comes so easily to her, so why, why can’t it be easy for him too?

He _should_ be happy. He has comfortable quarters to sleep in, all the food he wants one request to the replicator away, and people who don’t look at him like everything he does is wrong by default. So why isn’t he happy? Why is he always waiting for the other shoe to drop, why is he always half-expecting a voice to say _Computer, end program_ and put an end to it all?

But this is no simulation, he reminds himself as the large shuttlebay doors open and Lt. Goldstein beams at him, standing near the open hatch of the shuttle as if it didn’t look at all like a big mouth ready to swallow the three of them whole. This is real, too real.

“Ready, kid?”

He manages a nod, absurdly thankful that this is the sister he can actually lie to, sometimes. He likes it when Lt. Goldstein calls him ‘kid’, though, and it feels like a good omen for the upcoming mission. It doesn’t sound at all like when Abernathy does it. It’s the same word, but when it’s coming from him, it makes him want to slink away and go stand in a corner where he’s sure he’s not underfoot, while from her, it’s… nice.

He’s ridiculously glad she’s there. She hasn’t joined him and Mr. Scamander as a personal favor to him, of course: she’s there because the rules and regulations say so, because it would be the height of foolishness to send a science officer down to a planet they know so little about with the sole company of a boy he personally chose as his assistant for reasons nobody can see, because having someone on their team who can phaser and punch them out of trouble if reasoning doesn’t work is a most reassuring thought.

But there’s a whole other reason why Credence is grateful it won’t be just the two of them in the tight confines of the shuttle, even if Lt. Goldstein is just one more person he’s putting in danger: she’s a buffer. Maybe Mr. Scamander will have something else to think about with her on the team, something that doesn’t involve looking at Credence sideways when he thinks he doesn’t notice as if _he_ were the object of his research.

Of course, there’s a fundamental problem that maybe Mr. Scamander and the Captain failed to take into account when putting together this particular away team, and it becomes evident as soon as they’re given clearance to depart and the engines roar into life, ejecting them into space: there is now a shuttle out here, somewhere between the ship and the surface of the planet Beta Trianguli III, crammed with three people who have no idea how to start a conversation. It’s going to be a very silent ride. Sometimes, one of them will bravely open their mouth to say something, and promptly close it right back because surely, _surely_ it’s not their turn to make the first move.

The people on the lower decks, on the other hand, seem to have spotted the issue: the Scamander-Goldstein betting pool is abuzz with activity at the prospect of the two of them spending any amount of time on a shared mission, with half the crew steadfastly convinced that nothing will change between them and the other half swearing up and down that they will come back as an item, having summarily relieved each other of their uniforms in some hidden cave while the new kid is off collecting data for them; either way, when the composition of the away team became common knowledge, the shuttle was promptly renamed _USS Awkward_ behind their backs. They think Credence hasn’t noticed, but he hears a lot more than they believe: it happens when you have painstakingly perfected the ability of standing there without anyone realizing you exist.

At first, Credence doesn’t really mind the silence: he’s content with sitting and observing, craning his neck to see what Mr. Scamander is doing with the console. It was no hassle at all to elect him their main driver for the day: with all the things he’s seen and done, Lt. Goldstein easily conceded that he’s the better helmsman and that the role of co-pilot suits her just fine, and Credence has to admit that for one whose natural habitat is a lab, he knows some pretty nifty maneuvers. He smiles to himself when he realizes that he can almost always tell where his hand is going next, and thankfully, they’re both too focused to turn around and ask him what he’s smiling at. All that holodeck time is paying off.

However, perhaps some easy chatter would help his nerves. He has no idea what’s down there, and it isn’t precisely relaxing to have two companions who don’t talk much at all except for clipped requests to adjust their course and retreat as if burnt when their fingers brush on the controls entirely by mistake. It’s like watching an awkward sort of dance: every once in a while, one of them will lean over and press a button that is squarely in the other person’s half of the panel, and that will trigger a chain reaction made of blushing cheeks and mumbled _sorrys_ and eyes that look pointedly away. Credence supposes this is their way of flirting, but it’s rather excruciating to sit by the sidelines, and the silence that felt so enjoyable in the first few minutes of the trip is now driving him utterly mad. He feels like he shouldn’t be there, like he’s something extra and they would be better off alone. Luckily, he’s long used to it. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but he greets it like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

And then, just when the silence becomes too much to bear, there’s an almighty lurch that almost throws him off his seat and Lt. Goldstein lets out a most unladylike curse that should have her blushing twice as much.

“And _that_ ,” she spits out, “is why we have to take the blasted shuttle in the first place.”

Credence is aware that she’s saying it mostly for his benefit, but that is one explanation he doesn’t need. He may not know enough about the intricacies of the transporter to understand why the frequent ion storms in this area make it too risky to beam down, but now that he’s right in the middle of one, he’s got a fairly good idea. Rationally, he knows they’re just ionically charged particles – he’s read up as much as he possibly could before going, because it wouldn’t do to look stupid – and that as far as ion storms go, this isn’t even that strong and a skilled pilot can keep the ride mostly smooth, but he isn’t exactly pleased about his predicament even with a hull of solid tritanium all around him, much less as something ethereal that nothing is stopping from being scattered and lost, at the mercy of a region of space that looks for all the world like it is throwing a cosmic tantrum because it doesn’t want them to be there.

“Sorry,” says Mr. Scamander, who is second only to Credence himself in his habit of apologizing for everything. “That one caught me off guard.”

His seat keeps vibrating underneath him all the way, but there’s only some minor shaking after that, and they’re through the worst of it before he knows it, the planet surface approaching. The tall, gnarled, foreign trees look curiously like toys from this height, until Mr. Scamander spots a clearing large enough for landing and Credence becomes painfully aware that this is light years away from child’s play and he must prepare to be on his very best behavior and hope he doesn’t blow it before he’s taken two steps outside.

They touch down with one final jolt and wordlessly split the equipment among them – Credence doesn’t mind that the distribution isn’t quite equal, that’s what an assistant is for –, and Mr. Scamander is already off before they can even think of disembarking, his eyes shining.

“Hey! We’re supposed to stick together!” Lt. Goldstein shouts after him, but he can’t help but notice she’s smiling at his antics. “How’s a woman supposed to do her job around here?” she complains under her breath as she marches off, her long, purposeful strides flattening the lush grass at her feet. Then she turns around and sees that he’s still stupidly frozen in place, trying to tell his foot to take that one step and failing, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks this is it: his first mistake in what will surely be a chain that leads straight to disaster. But her smile widens even more.

“Well, kid? What are you waiting for? You’ll miss out on all the fun!”

He dares not tell her that he doesn’t think he’s quite learnt how to have fun yet, and instead just takes a deep breath and steps off the shuttle.

The grass underneath is soft, the distant storm is causing a brisk wind that carries sweet scents from who knows where, and he’s doing it. He’s part of a real away team, and he isn’t screaming and running as far as his legs can carry him. That may not be fun, but it’s progress.

They catch up with Mr. Scamander, eventually, and he’s managed not to get injured without them, which is apparently more than Lt. Goldstein, every bit the concerned security officer, was hoping for, but it takes them some convincing to get him to share his first findings, because he’s too captivated by his surroundings to string two words together.

Credence can’t blame him. Beta Trianguli III is… bright. Even with the storm darkening the skies above them, it is positively exploding with color and life, and he’s ready to bet they’ll need to cram even tighter on their return trip, because Mr. Scamander will insist on going back with a new specimen or three. Or five. For now, though, they seem to be utterly alone, and although the thriving plant life holds his interest, it’s an open secret that he delights more in anything with fur or scales or feathers, and his eyes are searching, his perfect happiness slowly coming apart at the seams. Perhaps, Credence muses, it’s the weather: if he were a creature native to this place, he would very much want to hide when an ion storm broke out in the restless atmosphere above him, and the forest provides countless nooks and crannies to curl up in and wait it out.

“I can hear running water that way,” he says hopefully, pointing in the general direction where his keen ears have picked up potential signs of what he’s truly here for. “It’s probably our best bet, and we can get some water samples in the bargain.”

And sure enough, after only a short walk, they’re met with a scene that looks like it’s jumped right out of a dream, and one of the good ones too. There are fewer trees here, but instead of enclosing an empty space like the one where they left the shuttle, it looks like they’ve made themselves scarce to make room for something very curious indeed—and Credence has spent a lot of time in Mr. Scamander’s lab, and after you’ve been there for a while, you sort of lose the ability to call anything curious anymore. There’s a stream that widens into a circular pool at their feet, and Credence is positive that his eyes must be deceiving him, because the water is… glowing?

Ever so slowly, Mr. Scamander crouches down for a closer look, and he seems to glow even brighter, not with the shimmering, pale blue light from beneath, but with triumph. He gestures for them to follow suit, and Credence and Lt. Goldstein share a look—he’s hit the jackpot. When he starts communicating with his hands rather than his voice, hardly daring to breathe, much less talk, it’s a sign that he’s entered his scientist mode and there’s no shaking him out of it.

This time, Credence has to admit he may be right. As he looks down into the pool, he is somewhat reminded of fireflies—little things floating just below the surface, pulsing with light and moving about in no pattern that he can see, and very much alive. They’re not being carried by the gentle current: in fact, they seem plenty strong enough to fight it, squirming against it when their simple needs compel them to swim in the opposite direction. There’s a brighter spark whenever two of them meet, like a quick ‘hello’ made of light, but it’s over as soon as they separate. Mesmerized, Credence picks one at random and tries to follow its erratic path, but he loses track sooner than he would like, because they all look the same.

“Beautiful,” Mr. Scamander breathes out, his tricorder already whirring in an effort to tell what, precisely, these things might be. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as the readings come in. “I think… I think they’re attracted to the storm. Everything else is hiding, but they come out when there are ionized particles in the air. And—” he must actually have gone weak in the knees, because his free hand is suddenly splayed in the grass for support, “I believe they’re _mating_. See the sparks?”

Nothing can stop him now. That’s the difference between him and Credence: they’ll both stumble over their words and look like idiots sometimes, and they both much prefer looking anywhere except straight into people’s eyes, but when Mr. Scamander is talking about something alive, he sheds his usual shy self as easily as shucking off a jacket and gets carried away, completely forgetting that he has an audience and should rightfully be stammering and wishing for the ground to swallow him right then and there. Credence doesn’t have anything like that. He hopes he’ll find something to talk about with the same passion someday, but so far, his search has been unsuccessful.

“If they mate every time there’s a storm around here, good luck taking care of the kids,” Lt. Goldstein deadpans.

But Mr. Scamander doesn’t find it funny in the slightest. “That’s a legitimate concern. Their numbers should be through the roof by now—in fact, I’m not letting them anywhere near my water habitat, they could become invasive in no time. If this place isn’t overrun by them, there’s only one possible explanation: they have a natural predator around here somewhere. We’d better watch our step.”

Credence gulps, but doesn’t step away. He doesn’t want to be thought a coward.

“Relax, kid, your fearsome predator could easily be the size of a kitten.”

“Or a whale. Earth whales feed off plankton, the size of a creature’s food is no guarantee of the size of the thing itself.”

“Yeah, there is that.” Lt. Goldstein fiddles with the setting of her phaser, and out of the corner of his eye, Credence can see the notches going up. Well, that’s mildly comforting.

They follow the stream, Mr. Scamander in the lead, in search of a spot that’s not crawling with the little glowing creatures, where collecting a water sample for further analysis might be safer and less likely to upset them. It should be a pleasant walk, despite the ominous grey of the sky overhead, streaked with the occasional flash of light as the storm flares to life and reminds them it has no intention of letting up anytime soon, but the talk of a predator has Credence’s hair standing on end. Any sound in the distance could be announcing their end, and he finds himself jumping in fright more times than he cares to admit, even when the noise that had his heart in his throat turns out to be just the wind.

The small body of water widens as they go. It hasn’t quite been promoted to a river as far as Credence is concerned, but it sure has great ambitions. The current is stronger, and when, at long last, they stop where the glow is less pronounced, he isn’t sure he would trust himself to cross it without getting thoroughly soaked. There’s a bit of a drop here, hardly big enough to merit the grandiose name of waterfall, but it’s enough to keep most of the creatures away, except for a few brave stragglers: the others apparently don’t care for tumbling down even that modest height while they’re trying to find their match.

Credence sets down the equipment he’s been carrying and retrieves the appropriate sample container, but when he offers it to Mr. Scamander, the man makes no motion to take it, and instead jerks his head towards the water in silent invitation for him to do the whole thing himself.

He blinks, but doesn’t question it out loud. He hadn’t realized he would be _doing_ much of anything: with all the rules and regulations they have, half of which are probably still unknown to him, he’d been positive he wasn’t authorized to be anything but a helpful little pack mule, and if it meant he got to be on the team at all, he wasn’t about to protest that.

“Go on. I trust you.”

That makes him go strangely weak in the knees. It’s so… new. Part of him is conscious that collecting a water sample should be an easy task, one that is given to beginners and even he doesn’t have much chance of failing miserably, but these words change everything. He’s not sure Mr. Scamander knows that he’s managed to throw him for a loop twice today—he is _wanted_ , and he is _trusted_. Has the universe turned upside down?

But he steels himself and pushes those thoughts as far down as he can. He’s been given an order, even if not in so many words, and he cannot stand there like an idiot doing nothing, so he kneels down and briefly scans the surface before daring to touch it. He’s not sure he understands the entirety of what the tricorder says, but as far as he can see, there is nothing in there that could hurt him if his bare skin comes in contact with it, so he braces himself with one hand and sets the container directly under the falling water with the other, anxiously checking that he’s not catching anything alive by accident.

“There, see? That wasn’t so bad,” says Mr. Scamander. But Credence doesn’t know what to answer to that, so he keeps his eyes and his hands busy sealing the container and storing it back with the rest of the things he’s carrying, his load now quite a bit heavier.

Credence doesn’t understand why some experienced officers go as far as to call some of their away missions boring: he’s perfectly content walking around the lush green surface of Beta Trianguli III and scanning everything there is to scan, reveling in the simple knowledge that he’s been chosen for it. However, he has to admit that if those people were here with them, they would not hesitate to call this a first-rate boring mission. It’s almost enough to make him forget what he was so afraid of. Almost.

The highlight of their search is when their ever-vigilant instrumentation alerts them that the plump red fruits they’ve noticed hanging low over their heads from some of the trees are actually edible to humans. They’re rather too large for grapes, but they hang in inviting little clusters just the same way, almost calling to them. They’re a bit too generous with their collection of some specimens of those ‘for scientific purposes’, because they’ve all silently agreed that if they can manage to find the right conditions to grow them aboard, they’re going to end up in one of Jacob’s sweets before they know it.

“This is going to make his day,” says Lt. Goldstein with a fond smile. “The only thing he cares about exploring is new ingredients.”

Credence privately thinks that sums him up rather nicely. He’s a regular fixture of his kitchen when he isn’t timidly branching out into more sensitive shipboard duties than peeling Andorian tuber roots, and when an away team brings back something you can eat without landing yourself in sickbay, he’s liable to drop everything to check it out. Credence has seen him at work, and it’s a sight to behold. Phase one consists of putting on his best winning smile and begging the valiant explorers for a share of their loot, which they’ll usually give without thinking twice about it, their minds already on the delicious dishes that will come out of it (Credence swears he’s actually heard a stomach or two rumbling at that point, but that could be because away missions make you hungry). Then it’s a complex ritual that involves rubbing his hands in anticipation and drinking in the sight of the strange new food he’s been so generously allowed: he looks and smells and touches and tastes until he’s satisfied, and finally, eyes shining, he comes up with a full-fledged recipe in the space of a blink. Sometimes it will be spot-on, sometimes it’ll require some more tweaking before it’s perfect, but Credence is convinced that, given enough time, he could turn rocks into a scrumptious meal if it tickled his fancy.

The first time he’d seen it (he now feels a twinge of shame thinking back on it), he’d doubted the man’s sanity, because he didn’t know, back then, that food was something you could _care_ about so deeply. It was just something to fill your stomach and keep going, on good days. And on bad days… well, better not dwell on those.

But Credence is a different person now. He’s still a few light years away from normal, but on the _Woolworth_ , a bad day is when the holodeck is already booked and you can say goodbye to your simulation, not when you’re left exhausted and hungry and hurting and you finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep thinking that maybe the galaxy would be a better place without you after all. He hasn’t had a day like that in a long, long time.

“I wonder what they taste like,” he hears himself say. The tricorder can tell him what they’re made of just fine, but he’s not nearly knowledgeable enough to guess what that means in terms of flavor.

“Only one way to find out,” says Mr. Scamander. “They do say you should always eat local food whenever you visit a new place.”

He walks up to the nearest fruit-bearing branch, and Credence can hear the warning in Lt. Goldstein’s stern voice as she says: “Hey, that’s against—”.

But as his ever-curious fingers pull on the closest bunch, she doesn’t make it in time to say exactly which rule and which comma he’s breaking, because there’s a sudden rustle of movement in the foliage, and the next thing they know, Mr. Scamander is hissing in pain, cradling his hand close to his chest.

“What the…? Let me see that.”

She rushes to his aid, and with his heart pounding, Credence follows suit, struck by the silly thought that it took an injury, of all things, to get those two to hold hands properly.

Even with the very best medical technology at his disposal, Mr. Scamander is no stranger to scars: he says his hands are like a map of his travels told in bumps and scratches that will never quite go away, and he likes them the way they are.

In his own way, Credence gets that: he’s been offered the use of a dermal regenerator on his own hands, but he hasn’t said yes or no just yet. As much as he hates the sight of them, and as tempting as the prospect of new, unmarred skin sounds, he’s never much cared about his outward appearance, and he doesn’t think it’s fair to erase the physical signs of his past and pretend they were never there, not when the marks go so much deeper than the outside.

But now there’s a new mountain on Mr. Scamander’s map in the form of what looks like an angry red bite that is swelling alarmingly, and Credence looks up at the tree just in time to see it: the culprit is even smaller than Lt. Goldstein’s joking estimate of a kitten, but before it disappears, he catches a glimpse of a tough, gleaming outer shell and far too many scuttling legs for his liking.

Ever efficient, Lt. Goldstein is already scanning away, holding his injured hand still with her own—which is proving harder than it should be, because it appears to be twitching of his own accord.

“Damn. I can’t get an accurate enough reading, but it’s some kind of toxin.” Credence goes for his equipment, but she’s quicker: “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think there’s anything in that medkit that can help. Back to the shuttle and let’s call it a day, he needs sickbay and he needs it fast. I don’t want to risk making it worse.”

Unsurprisingly, no one objects to her taking charge and they all turn on their heels and march back to the clearing. Credence would gladly run like his life depended on it, but Mr. Scamander’s pace is unhurried, almost unnervingly so, and he explains haltingly that he doesn’t care for the additional exertion to pump the unfamiliar substance into his bloodstream even faster, thank you very much. He’s visibly trying to get them not to worry, but his attempt at a smile comes out more like a grimace.

“Joke’s on me,” he says in a last-ditch attempt to keep the mood light that fails spectacularly. “That’s—that’s our predator, I think. On someone with our size and physiology, it’s just a twitch, but – ouch – if the stuff gets into the water…”

“Dozens of the little things would be paralyzed, ripe for the taking,” Lt. Goldstein concludes for him. “Practically sitting ducks. No wonder they have to be so many just to survive.”

That would be an excellent theory that sums up everything they’ve learnt about the planet wonderfully, except for one thing: by the time they’ve reached the shuttle, ‘just a twitch’ has turned into something more. Mr. Scamander insists that he can walk, that he’s had much worse, but no one can possibly miss the way he’s staggered more than once along the way, needing to be caught before he toppled onto the forest floor, his cheeks aflame with embarrassment at his predicament, or perhaps just with having to be held upright by Lt. Goldstein. The unknown venom coursing through him seems to be affecting his ability to coordinate his own movements, spreading first in the right side of his body and now in his left, and even more worryingly, he’s been silent—even more silent than usual. They can’t tell whether he’s just saving his breath or he’s unable to speak, but it doesn’t look good.

Credence doesn’t put two and two together until she half-drags him to the back seat and pats the empty co-pilot’s place in invitation, but it’s laughably obvious now that he thinks about it: there’s no way he can be of any use at the console when his hands are out of commission. He’s glad he didn’t have a taste of those fruits after all, because he’s suddenly about to lose the contents of his stomach.

“Okay, kid, don’t panic, I hate to put it this way, but it’s just you and me now. Don’t worry, the controls are very intuitive, I can give you a crash course. You just—”

But he’s already preventing her, a sense of familiarity taking over his fingers as if they were no longer his own, and he can see her jaw drop out of the corner of his eye as his half of the controls beep into life.

“I’ve never done this for real, but…”

“ _That’s_ what you’ve been doing with all that holodeck time? You’ve been holding out on us!”

“I’m—I’m sorry, I probably should have asked for permission.”

“Sorry? That’s the best news I’ve heard all day, let’s go!”

And they’re off.

It’s really not that different from being in the holodeck, except that his heart is beating a lot faster; but not all of it, Credence realizes with a jolt, is fear. Some part of him he hadn’t even known was there is excited to be shooting up into the atmosphere, doing his own small part to harness the power of the engines with a simple touch.

Perhaps it’s because it’s a shuttle not unlike this one, if older and in less pristine condition, that brought him to his new life, but he will forever associate the roar of an engine to the inebriating feeling of _breaking free_ , even when he doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s running from.

But that doesn’t last long. Their take-off was something out of a textbook, smooth and without a hitch, but sooner than he would like, they catch up with the storm, and his seat is once again vibrating as if in protest as they take the shortest route back to safety, the one that happens to plunge right into it.

“Blast it, it’s getting stronger.”

Credence wishes her assessment were wrong, but looking out their viewport, he can’t help but agree. Light is surging around them in great jagged arcs as though in warning, and he’s quite sure he knows what to do in theory, but when it comes to putting it into practice, there’s a panicked little voice in the back of his mind telling him they’re not getting out of this alive.

He doesn’t quite realize his hands are shaking until Lt. Goldstein has to still them with her own. “Hey. Hey, we’ve got this, okay? I promise we’ve got this.”

“But—”

“No buts, Credence.” Somehow, the use of his given name feels like a greater mark of the seriousness of the situation than any amount of shaking. “I haven’t seen you at the helm, but if you can handle a shuttle the same way you’ve been doing the rest of your work, I know we’re getting back in one piece. I trust you.”

That’s _twice_ in one day, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

He’s about to say something (what _do_ you say to that, anyway?), when the shuttle rocks so hard he almost tumbles out of his seat, and he can see they’ve been knocked slightly off their intended path.

He’s sorely tempted to ask _Do you still trust me after that?_ , but there’s no time, and all that comes out of his mouth instead is: “Course correction, heading 255-mark-47.”

She punches it in without missing a beat, but the steady _beep-beep-beep_ of her fingertips on the panel is now going about as fast as his heart, because he’s just thrown the chain of command out the airlock, and he’s frozen in place waiting to find out exactly how much trouble he’s in.

“You okay?” She sounds puzzled instead of angry, but then a look of comprehension dawns on her face. “Listen, we’re a team, all right? Any input counts as long as it keeps us alive.”

She sighs as though preparing to do something she doesn’t like one bit and says: “This is probably against a regulation or two, but to hell with it.”

He didn’t think he’d ever hear her say that: she likes rules more than anyone he knows. What comes next, however, is an even greater surprise: she pries the pips off her collar and sets them aside, twin buttons of polished metal rattling with the vibration, and he’s struck by the thought that they look oddly tiny now that he’s seeing them this way.

“Does that help?”

It doesn’t, not really: clothes don’t make the man, and neither do rank pips. But he appreciates the gesture all the same: it reminds him of Mr. Scamander making himself smaller so as not to scare a frightened creature even further. He might even find it easier to call her Tina when she’s like this.

“When we’re aboard, I’m going to give these to Houdini to play with and replicate some new ones. Now let’s get him back his mommy.”

Credence smiles despite himself: the furry little critter has stolen more pips than they can count, earning plenty of people reprimands for not being dressed properly. But he can’t dwell on the image of him squeaking in delight at a new freely given treasure to stuff in his seemingly physics-defying pouch, because they’re shaking again, as if the skies themselves were raging at them.

“Computer, status report!” she calls out.

_All systems functioning. Shields at 83%._

The gentle synthesized voice seems to ground him: they’re in one piece, they’re holding on, not every sudden movement means they’re nearing their end. He breathes easier.

For a few blessed minutes, he falls into the easy role of being an extra set of eyes to see the rare things that escape her well-trained gaze. The screen makes it all look so simple: they are a tiny moving dot bearing the Starfleet insignia, and the _Woolworth_ is nothing more than the larger, inviting dot they’re trying to reach, like a mother waiting for her child. He supposes the relief of touching down onto the shuttlebay floor might truly feel like a mother’s embrace, but it’s not as though he has any real experience of those.

He thinks he’s getting the hang of it, but the storm is like a living creature determined to squash them like a bug or some other minor annoyance: just when he’s beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s actually doing well, the lights flicker and die for a moment, and as they come back to life, Credence twists in his seat to see sparks flying somewhere in the back.

 _Oh no. No no no this isn’t happening._ He’s not good at fixing things. If anything, he’s the one who breaks anything he touches.

“I’m going to go check the EPS grid, you have the conn until I get back.”

And she’s off before he can tell her she’s asking for the impossible, so there’s only one thing for it—make it possible.

He’s on his own. _Please, please, please, let it be quick._

Just in the nick of time, he sees that their shields are going to take another battering if he doesn’t get out of the way, so he does the first thing he can think of: he dips down hard and fast, where the sensors tell him it might be quieter, blessing the technology that makes it barely felt on the well-protected inside of the shuttle, because whatever work Lt. Goldstein is doing back there, it’s delicate enough when she’s steady, let alone when she’s being knocked this way and that. She doesn’t comment, which is good enough for him—better than a string of expletives, for sure.

But the reprieve only lasts for a brief instant. The storm seems to be reaching its peak, as though choosing just that moment to have a fit, as though knowing they’re at their most vulnerable, and he banks left to avoid another hit, but he doesn’t even have time to congratulate himself on a good move, because it _wasn’t_.

To his horror, the constant vibration increases as they’re seemingly caught in some kind of strong current that propels them forward on a path that is decidedly not the one they’d planned.

This is it. It’s veering them off course, and he’s managed to fly them right into it. How could he possibly have missed it?

“Pull yourself together, Credence!” he hears as if from a million miles away. “Everyone makes mistakes! I was supposed to come down there to protect you guys, and look how _that_ ended up. It’s only bad if you can’t fix it!”

Her voice anchors him to reality, and suddenly, there _is_ a way to fix it, he can see it clear as day, but he doesn’t trust himself to do it without disrupting her work.

“How are the repairs going? I need more power to the impulse engines!”

It’s the strangest sensation—as if it were happening to someone else. He hears himself say it, but it doesn’t feel like his voice at all, because that sounded like someone who knew what he was doing, and he’s _never_ sounded like that in his life.

And suddenly, blessedly, there’s a panel slamming shut, and he never knew that a clang of metal on metal could sound triumphant.

“You’ve got it.”

He barely registers Lt. Goldstein finally coming back to sit beside him, because the familiar roar is louder and louder in his ears, and – yes – there it is – they’re wrenching free of the current, and all that’s left to do now is get back on track.

He’s done it.

He feels himself slumping in his seat, slack with disbelieving relief as adrenaline leaves his body, but Lt. Goldstein doesn’t seem to mind making the course correction herself and giving him a moment to process it.

“And _that_ ,” she declares with an air of finality, “just reminded me exactly why I didn’t pursue engineering. It was probably a sloppy job, but it’ll hold us over.”

It’s quieter now; Credence knows it’s silly to believe an ion storm is alive and can think for itself, but he can’t help but feel it’s letting them go. Little by little, the vibration fades and then stills. He’d almost forgotten space could be so peaceful.

“You sure that was your first time on a Starfleet shuttle?”

“First time on a real one,” he says. “The one that got me here was for civilians, several years out of date and probably not even meant to get me as far as I did.”

She lets out a low whistle. “I hope it didn’t ruin your first impression. That would be a pity.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” she’s saying it slowly, as if talking to someone who’s not too bright, but coming from her, it doesn’t seem to hurt, “is that for a first time, that was some damn good piloting.”

Credence would dearly love to ask the computer if the oxygen reserves have somehow been sucked out of the shuttle, because he can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t _he_ who says it; he’s dizzy all the same, because she can’t possibly have said those exact words, as if the carefully drawn line between reality and his holographic dreams were blurring.

“Thank you,” he blurts out. At least, he thinks ‘thank you’ is the appropriate response: the thing about compliments is that they’re still as alien as the little glowing creatures of Beta Trianguli III.

She doesn’t look at him as if he’d grown an extra head, which is something. Instead, she points outside the viewport, and looking hard in the direction of her finger, he very nearly collapses with relief again when he sees it too.

The _Woolworth_ is a distant silhouette in the velvety sky, tinier than a model you keep on your desk for decoration, but it’s there.

“We should be able to contact them now that we’ve made it through,” she says, her hands already hard at work to send a transmission.

Seconds later, the screen flares to life with an image of the bridge, and the expressions he sees there are the most varied: Miss Queenie is grinning brighter than a star, though whether it’s just because she’s seeing her sister on the viewscreen or because their relief is reaching her from so far away, he cannot tell; Captain Picquery is the picture of polite puzzlement, her eyebrows going up a fraction at the sight of him in a seat that was most definitely not meant to be his and then back to carefully schooled neutrality; and Cmdr. Graves… what he wouldn’t give to read _him_ that easily.

“Well, that was quick,” says the Captain by way of a greeting. “Have you learnt everything there is to know about that planet in so short a time?”

“I’m afraid not, Captain, but we have one injured.” Behind her, Queenie’s face falls. “Request permission to dock, and a medical team to the shuttlebay.”

“Granted. I want a full report from both of you.”

That makes Credence’s relief a thing of the past. He barely talks to the Captain: to him, she is more like a mythical figure who keeps the ship running like clockwork and is felt in every nook and cranny, but not seen or heard. How is he supposed to tell her what happened?

He knows the bridge all too well from endless simulations, but when they get there, he realizes he can count the times he’s been on the real thing on his hands, and he’s suddenly flooded with the distinct feeling that he should be somewhere else entirely, and yet he’s rooted to the spot at the same time.

He feels a rush of gratitude when Lt. Goldstein saves him from having to talk first, but when she gets to the part he fears the most – the one where his hands were where they didn’t belong and they probably broke a few thousand rules letting him touch the console –, the Captain halts her with a raised hand and he wishes for nothing better than to disappear.

“Mr. Barebone,” he’s trying his hardest to actually listen and not get lost in infinite scenarios of doom, he’s _really_ trying, but Miss Queenie is catching every last one of them, he’s sure of it, “is she saying you’ve been teaching yourself all this time?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

He doesn’t understand what happens next: she and Cmdr. Graves share a long, long look that seems to be a whole conversation carried out without words, and Miss Queenie is suddenly smiling so wide he’s sure her face must hurt, and he’s probably just passed out in the holodeck and dreaming of all of this, because the rest is _impossible_ , he’s certain of it.

“It’s about time you got a proper tutor, Mr. Barebone,” says Cmdr. Graves, and he’s hardly processed the fact that he’ll be taught the secrets of navigation by an actual Starfleet officer when he adds: “Meet me in the holodeck tomorrow at 1700 hours for your first session.”

It’s a minor miracle that he’s still standing. Earlier today, he’d walked out of that room of wonders bitterly convinced that none of them would ever come true, and now… now he can barely tell one from the other.

He’s still a little dazed from the novelty that has crashed upon him when they take their leave and rush to sickbay for news, but he’s hoping against hope that nobody except Miss Queenie can see that; she’s asked permission to leave the bridge and join them to check on her colleague and friend, and he’s not sure he likes the way she smirks knowingly at him the whole way there.

They’re welcomed by steadily beeping machinery and a familiar air of pristine cleanliness, and Mr. Scamander looks pale underneath his freckles, but he’s smiling, and with good reason: he already has another visitor. News travels fast on a starship, and Mr. Kowalski is known to rush to anyone’s bedside with generous loads of sweet get-well presents that the doctors don’t approve of. There’s even a slice of Ktarian chocolate puff, just like in his rosiest expectations.

“He’s in the clear,” he announces cheerfully, guessing why they’re there with one look. “They found an anti-venom. To tell you the truth, it looks like he’s chomping at the bit for another adventure already.”

“I’m still under observation,” explains Mr. Scamander. “For how long, that is for the doctors to decide, and not for me to know, apparently. But one thing is certain—I never want to see those fruits again.”

“Not even in a pie? ‘Cause throw in some Vulcan redspice and they’re to die for, satisfaction guaranteed.”

This time, for once, it’s all too easy to join in the general laughter. Credence doesn’t know where this new course will take him, but with his friends around him, and the promise of counting Cmdr. Graves among them, any heading looks promising.

**Author's Note:**

> BEHOLD THE POWER OF FAKE SCIENCE.  
> Believe it or not, this is my first successful attempt at finishing a Star Trek story that feels even remotely like an actual episode, with all the terminology that comes with it, and I probably got it all grievously wrong despite repeated checks of Wikipedia and Memory Alpha, but it was fun. Frustrating, but fun.
> 
> On the subject of Credence and his previously unseen talent at the helm: it's an excuse to integrate him into the proper bridge crew sooner rather than later, and I find it weirdly adorable, so there.  
> Yes, Graves _will_ be caught looking at the helmsman's station when his eyes should be firmly on the viewscreen, so shippers, fear not.


End file.
